Memory to Mend
by ardavenport
Summary: Captain Picard has returned to the Enterprise after being held captive by the Borg. To take command again, and to heal.
1. Chapter 1

** MEMORY TO MEND**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 1**

"Difficult case." Pong Zola's brown eyes looked up from the display at Deanna Troi's desk. "But it could be worse," he added in a businesslike fashion. Troi sensed no strong optimism or doubt in him. Nothing beyond the expected, cool professionalism. She'd made a few discreet inquiries with people she knew at Starfleet Headquarters before Zola came aboard. Some people hated him, some admired him, but all had verified that his professional credentials were impeccable; even those who disliked him for being 'cold' and 'inhuman' admitted that they would recommend him.

"I wouldn't say difficult."

Pong stared back. "You wouldn't say easy, either." His response carried no trace of emotion in either voice or expression. No feeling filtered through to Troi's Betazoid empathy from him beyond his calm confidence not uncommon for an average Human male in his early middle years.

"No," Troi admitted.

"These status reports don't surprise me." He turned back to the screen. "Except," he qualified, "they run completely counter to his personality profile."

Troi sighed. "I had noticed."

He faced her. He sat in her seat, at her desk. Troi mirrored him, sitting calmly, the picture of neutrality. "Severe physical and mental trauma, brain scans indicating violent dreams and night terrors with no conscious memories afterward, extreme aversion to confronting his experience." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "This isn't the right behavior pattern at all. And I don't believe his profile has changed that much. Something else would have shown up on some of the other tests."

Troi cast her eyes downward briefly. "It doesn't fit. I can't explain it. Yet." Black eyes stared back at her colleague's brown ones.

"We'd better find out what it is soon, or more problems are going to develop."

"I would prefer that he come forward himself..."

"He may not be able to."

"If he doesn't in the next three days then I'll have to recommend a more...intense form of therapy."

A tiny smile curled Zola's lips. "I would have given him four."

Zola's show of warmth was genuine. She sensed that. He had timed it for maximum effect to establish a good rapport between them. She sensed that, too. Troi allowed herself a return smile...just a small one. "I think he would prefer to get it over with as soon as possible," she answered.

"I'm only here to assist you, Counselor."

"And to report independently back to Starfleet about Captain Picard's status."

"That, too," he freely admitted. "I hope that won't affect your decisions about the case."

Troi tilted her head to the side, considering Zola Pong almost as if he were a separate case, a patient to be analyzed. "Only as much as it might affect yours," she told him.

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

Two hours later Captain Picard sat on the overstuffed sofa in the 'sitting room' portion of Counselor Troi's office. Zola and Troi sat in two of the matching chairs. A couple clear, glass teacups and saucers littered the low table between them. Picard had taken one sip from his and now appeared to have forgotten about it. He seemed to be making a great visible show of being calm and cooperative, but Troi sensed enormous tension behind the facade. Zola, not the least bit telepathic or empathic, politely accepted the captain's show of composure, but she could tell that the other psychologist was equally unconvinced.

"I'm not sure what else you wish me to say." Picard had just finished an abbreviated review of his period of captivity with the Borg. A patch still covered the side of his head where the Borg had removed a piece of his skull. He straightened his uniform, expecting to be excused. Against Doctor Crusher's initial objections, Troi (and Zola) had insisted that to counteract the extreme loss of personal control and identity inflicted upon him by the Borg that he be allowed as much freedom as soon as possible. Physician and counselor had compromised by allowing the captain out of Sickbay two days after Doctor Crusher had removed the Borg implants, but he was allowed no more than four hours restricted duty.

"I don't think we have anything more to cover this time." Zola shrugged innocently. This was his first meeting with Picard even though he'd been communicating with Troi since the day after the Borg had been defeated. He glanced at her. She could think of quite a few things that they hadn't covered, but she nodded agreement. They obviously weren't going to get any more information from the patient.

"I will see you next week, Captain." Picard stood with Zola. The Headquarters psychologist, assigned as the case observer, made the captain uneasy. Just his presence on the ship reminded Picard that he was being observed, that people were thinking about him and concerned for him. An uncomfortable silence followed; it seemed there was some doubt as to which of them was to leave. Zola sat back down, making the decision for them both. Picard nodded briefly and left.

"That did not go well," Zola stated.

"Did you expect any better?"

"No." He sat back in his chair, arms straight at his side. He didn't fidget, scratch, cross his legs or even touch his fluffed and styled black hair. Every mannerism, or lack thereof, demonstrated the level of control he exercised over his own person. If he'd worn a more tailored cut of shirt and pants (or a more flattering color than olive green with thin, black, vertical pin-stripes) he might have been intimidating. Troi suspected that the informality of his dress, as well as everything else about him, was by design.

Zola stood. "I'm going to go back to my office, read over some of the other cases I have pending and then return to this one. Perhaps it will look differently then. I will call you if I have any new insights." He nodded and left, heading for the transporter room.

Deanna Troi relaxed. She could have used some fresh insights right then. The captain was not dealing well with the aftermath of his forced captivity with the Borg. And she wasn't even certain if his reticence was conscious or unconscious. She hoped it was the former; the later would be much more difficult to work with.

Picard could discuss his experience; he could recall everything done to him in excruciating detail. An unwanted benefit to being linked, mind and body, to the Borg Collective, was the electronic precision with which he could remember each violation, each horror visited upon him. But throughout his narratives he avoided any discussion of his feelings about the experience, as if they were bothersome and secondary to his purpose. He intended to pursue his recovery on a purely intellectual level. This didn't surprise the counselor; Picard had always been a very reserved person. What worried her was the intensity of his aversion to re-examine his emotions on the subject. And this was critical, because how he made peace with those buried feelings would decide how well, or even if, he recovered.

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

Doctor Crusher glared down at her patient. She'd used up her sympathy for him when she'd scanned his vital signs just after he'd arrived in Sickbay for his daily visit. It had been Counselor Troi's recommendation that had prodded her into letting him out of Sickbay a day earlier than she otherwise might have wanted to. At the time, she'd agreed that allowing him as much control as possible over his personal life was essential. But now, two days later, he seemed to be making poor use of his freedom.

"You've lost one point six kilos since you left Sickbay."

Picard sat up brusquely, unhappy with her rebuke. He'd had more than his fill of people evaluating his physical and mental status. He was tired of it. He would be quite satisfied if they would all just leave him alone to deal with his own private difficulties.

"I've been eating fine, Doctor." He hadn't actually had much appetite the past few days, but it would be pointless to try to convince the doctor that this wasn't a problem.

"No, you haven't." She blocked his way as he slid down from the diagnostic table. "You shouldn't have lost any weight at all," she chided sternly. Hoping for a spontaneous answer, she suddenly changed the subject. "How have you been sleeping?"

"Fine," he answered curtly. How was he supposed to have any opinion about any dreams that he couldn't recall, he wondered impatiently. He'd been scrupulously thorough about describing every detail of the Borg. He'd been totally honest about how uncomfortable he felt discussing it. He'd been painfully forthright about the injuries he'd suffered. But still it seemed that they wanted more from him. He was beginning to think that they were looking for something that just wasn't there, and in so doing were prolonging the recovery process just to be sure that they hadn't missed anything. His patience with it was wearing thin. At some point he would have to tell them to mind their places. But, he hoped, if they finally ceased their excesses he wouldn't have to.

With as little discussion as possible he departed Sickbay and left the doctor to her excesses.

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

"He's not cooperating." Doctor Crusher, sitting behind her office desk, faced Counselor Troi in the chair across from her.

"Actually he is. At least he thinks he is."

"That's not good enough. I should have kept him in Sickbay."

Troi shook her head. "That wouldn't have helped. In fact, it might have made it worse."

"I know," Crusher admitted, "but I don't like what I'm seeing. And I don't intend to sit by and watch while...what's wrong?"

Troi had ceased looking at her. Her gaze defocused in a familiar way that told the doctor that the counselor's empathic senses had suddenly demanded her attention. She inhaled quickly, her eyes jerking back to the doctor.

"The Captain...come quickly." She was up and out of her seat. "Bring your medical kit."

Doctor Crusher got to the turbolift first.

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

Captain Picard staggered to the doorway of the lavatory going neither forward nor backward. He stood there trembling, leaning against the door frame. He couldn't stop it. The cold he felt came from within.

The door chime sounded.

He stared forward, past the darkened bedroom to the main room beyond. "Computer, who is it?" he asked, dreading the prospect of answering the door.

"Counselor Deanna Troi and Doctor Beverly Crusher."

The door chimed again.

Troi must have heard him; he was sure of it. The violence of the nightmare that had awakened him had surely been enough to bring her from any part of the ship. Now she was at his door with Doctor Crusher. If they came in, they would see that he'd been ill. His pajamas were damp with sweat. And he'd wet the bed, too. He took a step forward and then back. With his back to the door frame he slid slowly to the floor.

I should answer, he kept thinking, but he wanted to compose himself first. The door chimed again.

"Medical emergency override authorized entrance, Doctor Beverly Crusher," the ship's computer voice announced.

The door whisked open. A bright square of light opened upon the floor of his cabin. Shadows blacked portions of it out. Legs, arms, heads... The light closed behind them. He rested his forehead on his knees.

The room lights came up, and they rushed toward him. He heard a medical scanner whir, but he didn't look up at it. His face was wet, from sweat and from tears. His mouth tasted foul and acidic, even after his attempt to wash it out. And he still couldn't stop himself from shaking.

"Damn," he heard Doctor Crusher swear. She would be angry with him. And worse yet, he deserved it. He rolled his head to the side and squinted toward her.

He jumped, sliding quickly to the side. Troi touched his arm but didn't try to restrain him as he moved away just before Doctor Crusher's hypospray could touch him.

"It's okay, it's okay. It's just something to help you relax." She slowly crept toward him on her knees.

"I know, I know." Tears ran freely down his face again. "I-I'd rather you didn't." He felt Troi's arm slide behind him, supporting his back. He flinched away from the touch, but there really wasn't any place for him to go.

The doctor stopped, as if considering a change of tactic. She sat back, reaching behind her to collect her medical kit. "All right," she told him gently. He burned with embarrassment to hear her using that tone of voice with him. She moved slowly as if she feared that any sudden movement would upset him. "But I'm going to get you something for your stomach." She stared at him earnestly, waiting for him to acknowledge that he'd understood. His embarrassment intensifying, he nodded. She rose gracefully and went into the lavatory.

Next to him, he felt Troi sitting close.

"Try to relax." She still touched him, one hand behind his back, the other resting on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around his knees and gritted his teeth, not trusting himself to say anything. He dearly wanted her to go away. If there was ever a time he needed privacy, now was it. Troi spoke to him with calming, soothing words. He shut his eyes and ignored her.

Doctor Crusher returned. "Jean-Luc." He opened his eyes. She knelt very close, holding a glass up to him. Shakily, he lifted his head and took it; he dreaded what it might contain. Her hand stayed on the glass, steadying his grip. I must look terrible, for them to be acting this way towards me, he thought. The glass touched his lips. He tilted his head back and swallowed the pale orange fluid in a few gulps, not bothering to taste it.

It ran down his throat, leaving behind a trail of cool relief, that finally settled in his stomach. He released his grip on his knees and the glass, and Doctor Crusher took it away. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. It hit the wall behind him too hard and he grimaced. He felt Doctor Crusher's hand behind him, cupping the base of his skull. He let her support him. I must look terrible, he thought.

He sat there, not saying anything for several minutes. If he could not have privacy, then perhaps he could be allowed silence. But it didn't last. He felt the doctor's hand gently withdraw. He heard her get up and then he heard the sound of drawers opening. She was looking for a fresh pair of pajamas. He lifted his head. If she was thinking of dressing him...

He stared into Deanna Troi's fathomless black eyes. She'd hardly moved while the doctor had tended him, or perhaps he just hadn't noticed if she had. She stared at him now, expectantly. He'd have to talk about it. He'd been putting her off for days and only now realized it. She wanted to know how he felt; the facts that he'd relayed to her up until then were only the beginning.

A fresh wave of panic went through him along with the memory of the nightmare that had brought her and the doctor. It was still with him. He hadn't forgotten this time. He felt his throat tighten; his eyes stung with tears. He just couldn't control it, which was the most terrifying thing of all.

"Try to relax." She laid her hand on his shoulder. "Close your eyes." He shut his eyes tightly. "Take a deep breath." She waited for him to comply. "Good. Don't think of anything, just relax." Haltingly, he took another deep breath and furiously tried to clear his mind. After a few moments the tension in him lessened.

"We need to talk," Troi told him gently. He nodded curtly.

Doctor Crusher knelt beside him and surprised him by helping him to his feet. She handed him a gray handful of clothes and turned him back toward the lavatory. "Get cleaned up." And after that...he refused to think about it.

He threw off his soiled clothes, showered and cleaned his teeth. Crusher and Troi moved about in the next room, probably changing the bedding. He could hear them talking in the bedroom, just enough sound so he knew they were speaking, but not nearly enough to make out any words. He desperately wanted to hear what was being said, but he just couldn't make anything out through the door. And if he opened it, they would know he was listening.

He put his pajamas on and finally exited the small lavatory. The lights in the bedroom had been dimmed; the lights in the main room glowed beyond. He found them waiting in the main room, Troi in a chair next to the door, Crusher on the far end of the sofa, the empty half of the sofa between them obviously reserved for him. He edged around Troi's knees and the low coffee table and sat down.

He didn't say anything, just rested his elbows on his knees and stared down at the yellow and purple flower basket. If they wanted him to talk then they could start. It was difficult enough just sitting there.

"What happened?" Troi asked him.

"I suppose you're here to tell me that."

"You're the only one who can tell us that."

He sighed. "Counselor, I didn't know this was going to happen. I just didn't think it would be this bad."

"What did you think wouldn't be this bad?"

"This," he answered, flustered. Was he supposed to assign a name to his difficulties? "Dealing with...this."

"You didn't expect that recovering from your captivity by the Borg would be so difficult?"

He nodded, hanging his head sullenly.

"Why?"

"I don't know," he replied a bit crossly. "This isn't supposed to be happening. I've had worse things happen to me before." He started to rub his temple, but took his hand away when his fingers touched the skull patch.

"You have? When?"

He looked up at her sharply and then let his gaze drift downward. He'd make the statement without thinking. In the past, there had always been something worse to reference the latest calamity from. But not this time.

Troi got up, edged around the coffee table and sat down next to him, so that he was now sandwiched between her and Crusher. The doctor remained silent, except for the faint whir of the medical tricorder in her lap.

"I know this is difficult for you..." He cringed inwardly from these words. This was the sort of speech she gave to one of her patients. But he was one of her patients, this time. "...but we both know that you need to get through this. And the only way I know how is to talk about it." He nodded, staring down at the flower arrangement.

Troi touched his shoulder gently. "Why don't we start at the beginning."

**

* * *

- - - End Part 1**


	2. Chapter 2

**MEMORY TO MEND**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 2**

An hour later Jean-Luc Picard sat with his head between his knees. He'd already gone way, way past the point of embarrassment, so the undignified posture bothered him far less than it otherwise might have.

This wasn't working, he told himself.

In the far corner of the room, Troi and Crusher talked in low, unintelligible voices. About him of course. He didn't even try to listen. The situation had degenerated far beyond the point where he could even contemplate controlling it. He wasn't about to waste any time trying.

That was the absolute worst of it, the lack of control. He'd been in plenty of situations he couldn't control, but those cases were for the most part external. But now the thing he couldn't control was himself. The Borg had stolen it when they'd drilled their devices into him and raped his mind. He shuddered involuntarily and retreated from remembering too clearly. He'd been reporting and reviewing the details of his experience for days. Why was it so difficult now? His aborted discussion of his feelings on the subject had resurrected pain. Real pain. The sensation of cold metal and plastic inside him, tubes wriggling under his skin, lasers piercing bone. The Borg hadn't bothered with anesthetizing him. The first thing they'd done was establish control over his body. They'd been unconcerned with any physical pain, so long as it didn't interfere with their modifications. That had been irrelevant.

Now he relived the experience. And no amount of discipline, no effort of self-control could block it out. The same nightmarish nausea and convulsions that had forced him reeling out of bed now overcame him when he touched upon the experience. He knew that none of the pain was real, but that just didn't help. It felt as real as if he were still with the Borg, part of them, lying on a cold metal slab while...

His stomach tightened, imaginary needles touched his temple and grated on his joints. He closed his eyes tightly and inhaled deeply. Deep inhalation was Counselor Troi's cure-all for stress. It had always struck him as a simplistic technique, but in this case it worked a little bit, so he used it.

He heard Deanna and Beverly walking towards him. They sat down on the sofa on both sides of him. Trapped again, he thought humorlessly. Doctor Crusher touched his shoulder.

"Jean-Luc."

He sat up, too quickly. He leaned back and waited for the momentary dizziness to pass.

"I presume you have a prognosis." He kept his eyes closed, head tilted back resting on the back of the sofa.

"We think," Troi began, "that the symptoms..." He hated the sound of the word 'symptoms'. "...you've been experiencing come from the way in which you remember what happened to you.

"Your brain was linked directly to the Borg mind." He didn't bother telling her how uselessly redundant that statement was. "So, everything you remember from the experience wasn't just stored in your mind, it was directly implanted into your memory." The Borg had invaded most portions of his brain with their microfilaments. He knew exactly where; he could still picture the schematics with grisly accuracy. He could have told Doctor Crusher where to find every one, if he hadn't been unconscious during the operation to remove them. Locutus had known everything about his construction, in gruesome and technically accurate detail. "That's why you retain everything so clearly." Still, none of this was new information.

"The problem is," Beverly Crusher added, "that the Human brain can't normally remember pain. We remember how we felt about it and where and when it happens, but not the actual sensation. It's a defensive mechanism, otherwise we'd be reliving old injuries. Unfortunately, the Borg seem to treat physical pain as just another piece of data, and so that's how your memories were stored."

Picard opened his eyes. That made sense. He looked up at the ceiling. The overhead room lights shone only in their end of the room; the clean, white Earth-light shining from below accented the artificial illumination. He could see the reddish edge of McKinley station just above the ship through the top of the curved port windows of his cabin.

"Why didn't this happen sooner?" He lifted his head and looked from one to the other.

"You've been subconsciously suppressing it," Troi told him. "And since you normally tend to suppress your emotions, you linked the two together. It's only now finally come to the surface." That sounded like speculation to him, but he didn't have any better theories to argue with. And he hated to hear somebody else tell him what his mind was doing.

"So..." He sat up and deliberately put a positive tone in his voice. He didn't like any of this, but he did appreciate having a definite diagnosis and presumably a plan of action to soon follow. "What's to be done about it?"

"Because of the way you remember these memories, we're going to have to try a more intensive procedure, using a psycho-therapeutic drug, probably serokasnac."

His expression went blank. "Are you sure that's necessary?"

Troi nodded. "I'm afraid so. There isn't any other way to get at the problem."

Picard swallowed. It had been bad enough to suffer the physical indignities that he had that night, but now she wanted him to let his whole psyche be exposed.

"When do you wish to begin?" he asked.

"Tomorrow morning, in Sickbay."

He nodded. "Tomorrow then," he finished, assuming that that would dismiss them. He stared down at the flower arrangement on the table in front of him. Little purple flowers amidst yellow daisies. But they didn't get up.

"Jean-Luc." Beverly Crusher gently put her hand on his shoulder. He tensed. "Given what's already happened, I think I need to give you a sedative."

This was just too much. He glared at her and then softened his expression. Getting angry with her would not work in his favor. He reached up and took her hand from his shoulder. Gently, he held it between his.

"Beverly," be spoke calmly. "I know I've had some,...difficulties tonight, and I appreciate your concern. But now that I know what's wrong, I think I can deal with it. At least until tomorrow morning." He smiled kindly back at her.

"No, I don't think so," Troi countered. His eyes shifted to the counselor; his smile disappeared.

"Counselor-"

"Knowing what the cause is won't stop the nightmare from returning. You won't be able to sleep any more than you've been able to talk here about what's happened to you."

He lowered his eyes at her reminder of the past hour's failure; his defiance slipped. She was right. If he couldn't control his physical reactions to his own memories, how could he expect to sleep? He nodded, his head barely moving.

He winced when the doctor pressed the hypospray to his neck. She took his elbow and they stood. They led him to the bedroom. After he lay down, she covered him. Already feeling light-headed, he closed his eyes. Something touched his forehead and he heard a low, vibrating hum. Somatic inducer, he thought lazily. A second hum accented the first, but he hardly noticed it.

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

Deanna Troi approached Commander Riker's table where he was having breakfast in Ten Forward. It was a working breakfast. He reviewed a list of the day's itinerary with Lieutenant Worf between bites of scrambled eggs and biscuits while an ensign waited with a couple note padds that updated the progress of the ship's repairs since the night before.

Troi stayed back until the other two had gone.

"Counselor," he greeted her cheerfully as she took the seat next to him.

"How's the work going?" she asked conversationally.

He gave her a satisfied nod. "Pretty good. So far we're two days ahead of schedule." He took another bite of eggs. How are your repairs going, Counselor, he wondered privately.

As if to answer his unspoken question, she leaned forward. "I wanted to tell you that you probably shouldn't expect to see Captain Picard today."

"Is something wrong?" Riker put his fork down.

"No," she replied quickly, "but...the repairs are not ahead of schedule."

Uncomfortable with her using the euphemism that he'd just been thinking, he resorted to a direct question. "Deanna, what's wrong?"

"Nothing worse than what we expected," she answered evasively, "but worse than what Captain Picard expected."

Riker didn't press her. He treaded on the thin ice of medical privacy. And he'd learned to respect Captain Picard's sense of privacy in particular. Unless there was something he could do to help.

"If there's anything I can do?" he offered.

She laid her hand over his, resting on the lighted tabletop. "I'll let you know," she reassured him.

Picard had been minimally directing the ship's repairs since leaving Sickbay. Riker was doing most of the actual work. He still wore the four rank insignia of the field captaincy given him during the Borg crisis. Troi had noticed him cautiously observing the captain at times as he tried to estimate the magnitude of his injury. Will Riker was a natural leader, but she sensed that he loathed the idea of getting a captaincy over Picard's downfall. He cared. And what Will couldn't see, but she could sense, was that the attention of everyone else in Ten Forward was focused on their table. It was obvious that the first officer and the counselor had to be talking about the Captain. They cared, too.

"See you for dinner?" he asked as she got up to leave.

"Maybe." She left.

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

Picard straightened his uniform tunic. He sat unhappily waiting for the serokasnac to take effect. He carefully laid his hands on the armrests of the reclining chair while Counselor Troi retrieved a chair from the diagnostic workstation. Doctor Crusher, just behind him, remained standing.

His chair occupied the center of the small private room. Most of the medical monitors were black, but a few, linked to the chair he rested in, blinked and beeped quietly. He glanced at the white lights above, then back down at a dormant black panel in front of him.

Troi sat down next to him.

"You should try to relax." His eyes shifted toward the counselor and then away. He didn't feel a thing.

"Did you sleep well last night?" He nodded, unwilling to engage in any small talk. Doctor Crusher had woken him up that morning and then insisted that he eat a light breakfast. If he'd had any further nightmares that night, he didn't remember them.

"You're not happy about this."

"Should I be?" he responded testily.

"I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think." He paused. "I think there should be some other way of doing this. I've been through enough," he finished quietly. He stared sullenly down at his knees.

"What?"

"Hmmmm?"

"You said you've been through enough. What have you been through?"

He turned his head toward her. She should know that, he thought briefly. "The Borg," he answered without really thinking about what it meant.

"Tell me about them."

Something was wrong with that question. He was sure of it. But he couldn't think of what it might be. "About...?" He let his head fall back to the headrest of the chair, but he kept his eyes fixed on the counselor.

"Tell me about the Borg, Jean-Luc."

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

Doctor Crusher sat warily in her seat and waited while the drama before her concluded. Picard was standing with Troi next to him. The counselor held his right arm above the elbow and he stared down at it with profound worry and confusion.

"Show me. Show me where it is, Jean-Luc," Troi prodded gently.

He tried to speak, but only managed an incoherent squeak. He tried again.

"It-it's gone." He turned his arm over, palm up, palm down, then palm up again. He flexed his fingers and touched his sleeve with his other hand, tugging on the fabric of his uniform. "I-I don't...it-it's gone," he finished weakly. Troi led him back to the reclining chair and sat him down in it. She had him lie back, then she lifted his legs up and repositioned his feet in the foot rest.

Beverly Crusher checked the monitors. The stress levels were nearly normal, and the K register measuring pain hovered just above zero.

Troi reclaimed her seat. Picard stared back at her with a longing expression, waiting for her next words to tell him what to do.

"Now, tell me about..."

Patiently, Troi led him through the last part of his captivity: his being rescued and returned to the _Enterprise_; his trying to escape, attacking a security guard with the Borg prosthetic on his right arm; and his confrontation with Data. This time he got through the whole episode without dissolving into convulsions from the latent memory of physical pain. Crusher nodded to Troi after re-checking the readouts.

"It's over now..." Troi spoke softly to him; she gently eased him away from the painful memory. The physical agony had passed, but the mental anguish remained. His breathing slowed, the muscles gradually relaxed, but his tormented expression lessened only to one of accepting despair. Troi wiped his face with a cloth. He closed his eyes.

"Rest." She gently laid his arms over his stomach. After a few moments she got up and went over to the corner where the doctor waited.

Standing in place, her arms in front of her, Troi stretched. This was the first break they'd had in over an hour and a half. The entire session had been going on for nearly five hours.

"You think that's it?" the doctor asked.

"I hope so." Troi sighed. "I wouldn't want to do that again." From their darkened corner they observed Picard. The monitors showed that he had lapsed into a relatively normal sleep. During each stage of the session, the doctor, along with the medical computers, had carefully watched for the captain's response to each memory. If any of the memories could be traced to any physical trigger it could be mapped and de-sensitized. But during the entire five hour session that had not once been the case. She looked at her weary patient, at the grieving expression on his face.

"So do I."

**

* * *

- - - End Part 2**


	3. Chapter 3

**MEMORY TO MEND**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 3**

He lay on light, with bright light from the sides of the box he lay in surrounding him. There was no top, which he knew was wrong. Borg drills and unit modifiers clicked and whirred as they sliced off pieces of him. This should hurt, he kept thinking. He saw Doctor Crusher entering the room. She spotted him, lying in his box, her expression disapproving; he glared back at her. Maybe she wouldn't come near. From this angle she couldn't see how much of his body was already missing. She'd be angry if she saw. He felt wetness dribbling down his arms and neck. Now he was bleeding and he wouldn't be able to hide that from her.

"Jean-Luc!" She'd seen. She told him to get up. She didn't know he couldn't move, and it annoyed him that she wasn't taking that into account. He now lay in a shallow pool of blood, and it finally occurred to him that he might run out. He tried to get up, but his paralysis remained. One of the drills touched bone and that worried him. Its low hum changed to a screeching whine. The back of his uniform under him was soaked, and he furiously wanted to get up to change it. Soon it would clot and stick to him, and then it would really hurt to get it off. Panic knotted his stomach.

"Jean-Luc! Jean-Luc!" He stared up at Beverly Crusher. The lighting around her suddenly flicked to a lower level. The room went dark. Shadows painted her face and she was suddenly standing right over him. He felt her hand touch the side of his head.

"It's okay. It's al right. It's just a dream." The pool under him evaporated. The hard surface he lay on molded into a firmly padded one. Still paralyzed, he stared up at the doctor.

"It's just a dream," she repeated softly.

Cautiously, he tried moving his arm and found that he could, found that he still had an arm to move. He sat up and scanned the room quickly.

"It's all right, there's nobody else here." He exhaled. It was over.

"How do you feel?" Beverly Crusher's hand rested on his shoulder.

"Better," he nodded. His stomach fluttered, he felt weak and queasy, but he did feel better. He swung his legs to the floor. Counselor Troi had been quite thorough in her review of his experiences with the Borg. He shuddered. Beverly Crusher sat down next to him, her arm moved over his shoulder in a comforting gesture. He sat still and willed the anguish within him to calm, and slowly it subsided.

"Are you all right?" He nodded. He wasn't, really, but he was better than he had been. He reached up to rub his temple and touched bare skin. He froze momentarily, knowing that something had changed.

"I took the patch off," she told him. "It was time to come off anyway, and since you were here..." He nodded his acceptance. He felt vaguely upset by the physical alteration.

He turned his head toward her and gave her a wan smile. "I'm glad that's over with."

"Me too," she smiled back. She watched as his expression changed to one of regret and horror. "What's wrong?"

He stared back at her and remembered. Walking to the intruders' location, in perfect synchronization with the other Borg, he'd stayed back until the others had determined the proper modification to their shielding to defend against the _Enterprise_ away team's phasers. Doctor Crusher had been the first to see him. The light of hope in her eyes had faded to shock and horror. He'd made his move then; he'd mustered every bit of fury and anger and indignation he'd had. He'd had no coherent plan of action; he couldn't even control his own thoughts. All he'd had were raw emotions, intuition and instinct. He'd been sure that the cold, emotionless edifice of the Borg Collective would be affected by the intensity of his injury, his sense of violation. And maybe it would have worked, if he'd been able to communicate it to them. But they'd already anticipated that. His outrage hadn't gone beyond the microfilaments in his own head.

He'd watched while the others in the away team turned and saw him. Worf had come at him through the alternating light and dark within the open walkways of the Borg ship. His instinct screamed for him to stop; his mind couldn't even form the coherent thought to warn the Klingon about the force field. He knew it was there even as Worf hit it face on and went down. His burning anguish went no further than himself. Trapped in his own little circuit, he couldn't even access simple words to attach to his rage. That had been the first test, the first failure. Up until then, he'd thought that he might yet wrest some meager control of his own body back from the Borg by pure force of will. Something, anything that might communicate that he, himself was still there. It hadn't worked. He'd been completely cut off. The away team had retreated, Doctor Crusher's gaze still fixed on him as she'd dissolved in the transporter effect.

Now, the warmth of her body sitting next to him, her arm over his shoulders, her leg next to his, reminded him of the hard, metal surfaces of the Borg ship.

"I was just thinking..." He lowered his head. He couldn't finish the sentence. The physical pain of the memory had faded, but the hurt still remained. Tears ran down his cheeks. Beverly Crusher's arms closed around him; she pressed his head to her shoulder.

He didn't want this. He wanted to be able to look back at what had happened to him as if it had been just another mission, some horrible episode that he could record in his log and leave there. But nothing had seemed so desolate as the empty space left behind after that away team's departure.

Isolate in his mental box, he'd kept fuming, kept trying, kept fanning his anger and indignation. 'Number One' had been how Locutus had addressed Commander Riker over the comm. An audible sob escaped him as he recalled the insult.

"Shhh," Beverly shushed. Her arms tightened around him; her hand stroked his head. The sound of his grief became a continuous, uneven sobbing. He clutched her supporting arm as she rocked him gently. It had been just too horrible to comprehend at the time. He'd expected to be rescued. Somehow Data or Riker would find that weakness in the Borg that they must have missed earlier, and use it to retrieve him.

But when he'd seen the _Enterprise_ receding in the distance as the Borg ship left it behind, a hideous sinking feeling had seized him. Reality had set in and ground the bits of hope he'd been surviving on into nothing. Like an automaton, he'd moved on to the next stage of his assimilation.

He stayed there in Beverly's arms. For a long time his only surroundings were the feel of her cradling him, the smell of her hair and clothes.

But the paralyzing memory at last eased. He reached the point where he had no more energy left with which to grieve. The cloth and hair under his cheek were damp and darkened. With shame he realized that he'd been sucking on the material of Beverly's blue, medical jacket. He lifted his head and slowly pulled away.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked softly, her hand still stroking the side of his head. He nodded without looking up. New tears stung his eyes, and he cried anew. But not from anguish this time. He just felt so unbearably grateful that she was there. The feeling welled up inside him, replacing his grief with joy. He hugged her close and he clung to the chance to touch her that he'd been denied on the Borg ship.

"It's okay. It's okay." She'd completely misinterpreted the cause of this second wave of tears, and he almost felt like laughing with happiness. Here was proof that the Borg hadn't succeeded in crushing his identity, his past. He'd known Beverly for a long time, and she was still here. He lifted his head and rubbed his cheek in her hair.

Suddenly he pulled back and kissed her, long and passionately. She didn't respond at all. Too surprised, he thought. But at last her lips parted and moved under his. He sat back and gazed at her. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed, as she tried to catch her breath.

Beverly panted. His arms around her, her mind worked furiously. Six cc's of serokasnac five hours ago. No, add two hours to that, seven hours ago. But she couldn't remember the metabolism rate even though she'd monitored it all though Troi's session with him. She was sure it hadn't been unusually high, but there would still be a measurable amount of it in his bloodstream. Not much, hardly any at all, but perhaps enough.

She opened her eyes and the look of love and gratitude on his face made her shiver. How did she ever not notice that his eyes were so expressive? She forced herself to look away. Making love to a patient in Sickbay, eh Doctor? His emotional barriers were down, shattered. And she couldn't think of a time when he'd been so attractive.

His hand gently brushed her damp hair back away from her cheek. He leaned toward her again.

"Jean-Luc." She held up her hand, her fingertips coming between them. "Please," she whispered.

He waited. He focused on her gaze and held it. Unafraid to let her see what was in him, he looked deeply into her blue eyes. She was reluctant, but not unwilling. His fondness for her intensified. A part of him recognized that his euphoria might just be a counter reaction to the emotional low from which he'd just come off. But no, he reasoned, perhaps his desire for intimacy was a product of the moment, but he was sure that his affection was real. Still, he was taking a great chance with their friendship. Well, this wasn't the first risk he'd ever taken, he mused to himself. He kissed her fingers, the tip of his tongue caressing her skin. His hands massaged her lower back.

"Jean-Luc, please don't," she repeated gently. Unethical as hell, she kept reminding herself. Somebody could walk in on us any time, too. She held up her other hand as a meek defense between them.

He stopped. She looked worried, flustered.

"It's all right," he told her. He took her wrists and gently lowered her hands, but otherwise he stayed perfectly still, maintaining the small distance between them.

"It's all right," he reassured her and smiled benevolently. She unconsciously licked her lips.

"Would you like something to eat?" she asked after she'd regathered some of her composure.

"Yes." His eyes didn't leave her and she had trouble looking away from his confident gaze.

"I'll get you something." She got up and went to the replicator slot. She heard the rustle of his getting up after her. She refused to turn and look to see what he was doing. Then she heard the door to the lavatory open and close.

When he exited the lavatory he found a plate of crustless chicken sandwiches and a bowl of vegetable soup waiting. He thanked her, moved around to the opposite side of the table, and sat down. She acknowledged him and returned to the display of her medical log. She seemed to have returned to her usual state of professional calm, he noted, as he finished off one small, triangular sandwich. He tested the soup.

Long minutes passed with no words between them at all, alone together in a room full of silent, black medical displays. He finished the soup; the sound of the spoon against the bottom of the bowl seemed loud in the silence. He sipped his water; a faint scent of lemon rose from the glass.

"Beverly."

She looked up, her face a picture of falsely innocent neutrality.

"I didn't mean to...take advantage of the situation."

"Jean-Luc." She reached out to him, her fingers lightly grasping his own. "It's all right; you don't have to explain anything."

Amused, he shook his head. "No, I think need to say something. I..." he looked up at her. "You were the first person who saw m...Locutus," he finished. Her professional calm melted into concern for him. Her fingers clasped his a little more tightly.

"I don't know how to describe how I felt. When I saw you leave the Borg ship, I was glad you'd escaped." He smiled and then it quickly disappeared. "But I really thought I would never see you again. And I'm very, very glad that wasn't the case." His hazel eyes captured her blue ones, and he smiled fondly, again unworried about what she might see in his gaze.

"Jean-Luc, I...," she stopped. He put his free hand over hers, so that it now it lay between his hands. His thumb lazily caressed her wrist. Should she tell him, she wondered? She'd always intended to, but it was such an intimate thing that she'd found it easy to put it off, waiting for the right moment.

Years ago, when Jack had been on leave a few months before he'd died he had unknowingly forecast his death to her. They'd put Wesley to bed, and had gone to their own room and made love. The long separations they endured because of Jack's assignment on the _Stargazer_ had heightened their lovemaking.

But afterwards, Jack had lain awake.

_"Beverly?" he'd asked._

_"Hmmmm?"_

_"Beverly, have you ever thought about what you'd do if I died?" She came awake right away after hearing that._

_"What?"_

_"What would you do, if I ever got killed?"_

_She sat up and touched him. The room was almost completely black, but they didn't need to see each other. "I don't know. Are you planning on it soon?"_

_A chuckle. "No." Then a more serious tone. "But we had somebody killed on a mission last month and she was married, and it just got me to thinking about what might happen."_

_She caressed his chest and leaned forward so that her forehead touched his, after she'd found it in the dark. "Jack, I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you. And I don't want to unless I have to."_

_"Would you stay alone?"_

_"Jack!" She sat back, annoyed by his morbid pursuit of the subject._

_"I'm serious. If I die, I don't want you to stay alone, pining away for me."_

_"I don't pine."_

_"Good." A long silence. She lay back down on the pillow, her hand still touching him, stroking his skin with her fingertips._

_"Who would you go out with?"_

_"Jack!"_

_"Well, I guess I'd like to know."_

_"I'm not even a widow yet, and you're already marrying me off?"_

_"You don't have to marry him."_

_"Thank you."_

_Another long pause._

_"Would it be anybody I know?"_

_"What?"_

_"Well, I wouldn't mind. I might even approve."_

_She'd sat up again._

_"Do you have somebody in mind?"_

_"Well, I suppose, since you ask, Jean-Luc wouldn't be a bad choice."_

_"__I__ asked? __You__ started this. In fact, you had this in mind all along, didn't you?"_

_"Well, I've thought about it I guess."_

_"And I suppose you and he have discussed this?"_

_"No!" he answered quickly. "I mean, why should I?"_

_"I don't know. I'm beginning to wonder if you and he and Walker don't have some secret agreement to service each other's wives and girlfriends in case any of you doesn't come back."_

_"Beverly, he's my friend." He touched her and leaned close so that his breath warmed her cheek. "And if I had to choose, I couldn't think of anyone better."_

Beverly Crusher stared down at Jean-Luc Picard's thumbnail and wondered if perhaps this was the right moment.

"Beverly." Still locked in indecision, she didn't look at him when he spoke. "Thank you for lunch." He carefully withdrew his hands from hers. She stared down at the back of her hand, abandoned on the table. He straightened his uniform tunic. "I think I'll return to my quarters now. That is, if you think I'm medically fit to do so."

With a start, she realized that he had completely taken over the situation. What had started out as a psycho-analysis of his tortured feelings about the Borg had evolved into a probe of her own emotional status.

She nodded weakly and almost smiled. "Oh, you're fine."

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

"Well, how are you doing this week?" Zola began innocently.

"Fine, as far as I know," Picard answered, smiling politely.

"Counselor Troi's told me that you've had some difficulties since last week." Without moving his head, Picard's eyes traversed to Troi and then back to his primary interrogator. He answered neutrally. Zola replied in kind.

Staying back from the conversation, Deanna Troi watched them exchange words. She and Zola had agreed on their roles ahead of time.

"I've been catching up on some of the reports coming back from Wolf 359." They'd been chatting about Headquarters debriefings over the Borg incident. Picard's face hardened. Zola fiddled with one of the note padds on the desk between them. Picard sat in Troi's seat, at her desk. Zola sat across from him, and she watched them from the side.

"You were remarkably thorough about reporting your perspective of it."

Picard glanced down at the note padd. It was a wide, square one, with space for a larger display, but he couldn't read what was on it. The Starfleet expert's hands covered too much of the screen.

"Thank you."

"There weren't very many survivors from the battle, and none of them had a full picture of the whole battle."

"Is that their report?" Zola was hinting at something and Picard didn't feel like playing games.

"No." He turned it around and slid the padd over to Picard.

It was a list of names, postings and ships. He puzzled over them. Several were familiar.

"It's a partial casualty list from Wolf 359. I cross referenced the full list with your service record," Zola remarked. "Those are the names and the latest assignments of all the personnel who were killed who'd served under your command in the past."

Picard's face didn't move. He lightly tapped a control on the padd. The names slowly scrolled down. Dozens of names. He stopped it, scrolled down further, stopped it and restarted it. A chief engineer, a former first officer, bridge crew, doctors, ensigns fresh out of the academy (at least when he knew them), a security chief. He searched for names, skipping down to the R's and T', then up to the L's and H's as the names he recognized reminded him of others.

A jolt of anxiety had gone through Counselor Troi when Zola told the captain what was on the note padd. Then it subsided. Now it increased with the level of emotion she sensed from Picard. He stopped flipping up and down the list. He just stared down at it for long minutes. A tear ran silently down his cheek. Then another, and another. Zola reached across the desk to take away the padd. Picard's hand clamped down on it. His jaw tightened, but he didn't take his eyes away from the screen.

Troi steeled herself against the tide of his anguish. It climbed steadily, closing in on him as he futilely tried to master it.

"Captain Picard." Zola sat forward in his seat. "Captain Picard." More impatiently this time. Picard's eyes turned to Zola.

"Captain Picard," Zola began, sounding annoyed, and Troi sensed that it was real. Zola didn't repress any of his emotions; he was just naturally unemotional about most things. But when he did feel something, he let it show. "I don't think that you or I or Counselor Troi here have the time to waste on any shows of strength or self-discipline. This," he gestured toward the padd, "is an emotional problem, and we'll all be a lot better off if we can dispense with any unnecessary show of bravado." They faced off for another minute before Troi sensed Picard's resolve slackening. His stern expression withered into tragedy. His cheeks were wet; teardrops hung on the underside of his chin. Zola remained calm, slightly impatient, and even a little sympathetic...but not too much.

'Letting him do your dirty work for you?' she wondered. They'd agreed ahead of time that Zola would confront the captain. He'd offered to step back and let Troi do it, since she was the senior therapist. But she'd let him do it. 'Shock therapy' had been what it had called in ancient times. Sometimes it worked, and having a near stranger deliver the blow maximized the effect.

Picard tried to speak, but no sound came out; his throat tightened over the words. Troi felt a sympathetic constriction in her own throat. Getting up, she swallowed, forcing it down. Zola silently got up and moved away. His part in this first stage was finished. But he would return when it passed.

She sat in a chair next to him and nudged it as close to him as she could. He cringed, hunching his shoulders, when she touched him. But after she'd put her arms around him, he clung to her, and he stayed there for a long time.

**

* * *

- - - End Part 3**


	4. Chapter 4

** MEMORY TO MEND**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 4**

Doctor Crusher walked into Counselor Troi's office unannounced. She'd already checked with the computer that the counselor was alone while on the way down from Sickbay.

"Deanna, what happened?" she demanded without preamble.

"What?" Troi looked up from the glowing note padd on her desk.

Crusher gestured back to the door as if the recent past were just behind her. "I just saw Jean-Luc up in Sickbay, and he looked terrible."

"Was he feeling unwell?"

"No, it was a scheduled check-up. But he looked awful. And all he would say about it was that he'd had a 'difficult' session with you and that Starfleet observer, Doctor Ping-pong, or something." Not feeling very charitable, she deliberately mangled the name.

"Pong Zola." He was a doctor, a medical doctor, as well as a psychologist, but he preferred not to use his title. The Betazoid sighed. "Yes, it was a difficult session." She pushed the note padd aside.

"Well?" the doctor demanded when no more information came.

"Beverly, you know I can't..."

"Don't push confidentiality and professional ethics on me. When I have a patient who's depressed enough for it to show up that strongly on my medical scanners, I want to know why." She sat down and plunged her hands into the pockets of her blue lab coat.

"It was pretty bad," Troi finally admitted. She gave an abbreviated account of the session with Picard.

"What?" Crusher asked horrified, her blue eyes wide with shock. "Deanna, what were thinking of when you showed him that list?"

"Beverly." Troi raised her voice sternly. "It was Zola's recommendation and initially I didn't approve-"

"Then why did you let him-"

"Because," Troi went on, more forcefully, "we needed to know how he would respond to it, to see how much he's improved."

"Deanna, if I have a patient who's had a swimming accident, I don't toss him into a pool and wait for him to float to test whether he's well or not." Crusher leaned forward and put her arms on Troi's desk.

"It wasn't just for us," Troi answered back. "He needs to know, to have some kind of measure of how well he's doing. Beverly, when he left this office, he was relieved. I could tell. He knew that we would never have done what we did if we didn't expect that he could handle it. And that had to mean he was really improving"

"He didn't look all that happy when I saw him."

"He doesn't want to be happy." Troi leaned forward, her tone less challenging. "He's worried, whether he'll admit it to himself or not, that his experience with the Borg has left some permanent damage from which he can't recover."

"Is he afraid of losing his command?" Crusher had already considered that possibility and was giving serious thought to leaving the ship with him, if Starfleet removed him from the _Enterprise_.

"Yes, although it's not an overwhelming worry for him."

"Do you think he might lose his command?"

Troi shook her head. "No. And neither does Zola. But Jean-Luc Picard doesn't really know that, inside." She gestured with her hands, toward her own heart. "He needs to know that he's working as hard as he can to recover from this. He's expecting it to be difficult; he's expecting it to be at least as hideous as what he's already been through. He knows it won't help him if we try to coddle him."

Crusher looked away. "I know." Her voice carried the barely audible tremble of emotions masked with professional concern. "Deanna, his hands were trembling, he wouldn't talk unless he had to, his blood pressure was up; I'm concerned. He'd been improving this week." She looked back at Troi. "Hasn't he been through enough."

Troi shook her head sadly. "No. Not yet."

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

He fell. Hard onto the carpeted floor. Metal twisted on metal. Components ripped loose, sparked and crackled. The connections between flesh and steel stretched and tore.

He rolled, causing even more damage, crushing suddenly fragile hoses and linkages. Too heavy to do more than weakly move his arms and legs, he stared up at a dimly lit and impossibly high ceiling, like the dome of a great hall.

Will Riker walked into his field of view, towering over him. Regretfully, Riker did his duty. He lifted his leg and placed his foot on Picard's throat. His weight slowly pressed down...

Picard opened his eyes and saw the ceiling of his own cabin above him. Again. He pulled the blankets up around him. The pale reflection of the glowing Earth-light from below now seemed cold and frigid. He furiously wondered when it would end.

It had been more than two weeks since he'd been rescued from the Borg, but the residual effects still haunted him. He shut his eyes. The soft quilted blanket and the smooth sheet beneath it covered him nearly up to his chin. He laid his arms over his stomach and after a moment that warmed him. He lay still and deliberately thought about nothing. He'd already tried getting up and reading, but that didn't help. He'd only ended up staying awake at odd hours and being tired the next day. And the nightmares would return again when he rested. But they weren't nearly as violent at they'd been the week before. And he didn't seem to wake up any more than twice a night.

Maybe I'm getting used to it, he thought drowsily.

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

"...I am puzzled, by Captain Picard's reaction."

Guinan caught the last part of Commander Data's sentence as he and Will Riker took seats at the bar of Ten Forward.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Coffee," Riker said.

"I will have the same," Data added. Guinan left and returned with their order.

"I don't think he was concerned about the accuracy of his statement," Riker explained to the android. Data cocked his head and after observing Riker, he experimentally sipped his coffee, his mannerisms a careful imitation of his Human companion. Riker didn't notice.

"Anything I can do?" she asked. Riker's brooding expression softened. "Something happen?" Guinan looked at both of them.

"Something."

"Captain Picard behaved most...atypically at the staff meeting this morning," Data elaborated.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Commander LaForge and I were reporting on our analysis of Borg technology. We were explaining our trouble in analyzing some of their methodology, particularly the total asymmetry of their technology. At this point, Captain Picard interjected that Borg constructions are based entirely on need, which can change from moment to moment and that the Borg Collective operates as a single organism and simply adjusts to the variations. I queried for further information. But at this point the captain abruptly stopped. A few moments later he left the meeting early."

"I see." Guinan nodded, serene and calm in blue tunic and hat. "Had you spoken with him before about the Borg?"

"No."

"Well, maybe you should have asked him in the first place," Guinan suggested.

Data cocked his head. "Given the nature of his recent injuries, it did not seem appropriate to question him about it." Guinan inclined her head very slightly. Riker stroked his beard, his eyes smiling appreciatively at her. Data seemed to recalculate his thoughts. "Perhaps. He is still not comfortable speaking about it?"

"That might have something to do with it," Guinan told him. Data sat there with a disappointed look on his face.

"You didn't know, Data," Riker reassured.

"That is just the point, Commander. I should have known. I played a pivotal role in the captain's rescue and should have been able to surmise the cause of his reaction."

"Did you learn anything about him that you didn't know before?" Guinan asked.

Data shook his head. "No. And that in itself is disturbing. While still connected to the Borg network, Captain Picard, as a Human individual, was indistinguishable to me from the rest of the Borg. It was Counselor Troi, and then Captain Picard himself, who correctly determined the level at which I was affecting him. There was no link between us. When Captain Picard needed to communicate he had to speak out loud."

"You didn't feel anything?" Riker inquired, setting down his coffee cup.

"I do not 'feel' anything Commander. However," he paused, "I received numerous inputs, that I think directly related to the captain. I have not been able to interpret them."

"Maybe the captain could help you," Guinan offered.

The android cocked his head again. "I do not believe, especially given what happened this morning, that this would be an appropriate time to-"

"Picard to Commander Data."

Data tapped his communicator badge. "Commander Data, here."

"Mr. Data I have an update on my personal evaluation of the Borg. I... thought you might wish to have a look at it."

His interest piqued, Data almost smiled. "Yes, Captain. I would be most intrigued to see it." Surprised, Riker looked at Guinan, who only knowingly shrugged, as if she'd known all along that Picard was going to call, at just that moment.

"Meet me in my ready room. Picard out."

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

Guinan tossed Picard's communicator onto the floor. It bounced once on the carpet before landing under her desk.

Startled, the ghostly reflection of himself stared back at him from the plastic covering over the picture in Guinan's office. Completely abstract blobs of greens and oranges, it was an ugly picture, but it did match the orange carpet.

Guinan readjusted her grip around his middle.

"Now," she said conversationally, "let's talk."

"Is this how your Aunt Zylo would talk to you?" When Guinan had suddenly grabbed him, she'd tugged him over to her side of the sofa so that his back now rested against her stomach. But his feet still dangled just above the floor. He pulled his legs up onto the sofa with the rest of him.

"Um hm," He could see Guinan smiling in the faint reflection from the ugly picture. "She had an eleventh sense for knowing when I was having problems and needed to talk about them. She'd sneak up on me and grab me from behind. Of course, she used to have to twist my arm and wrestle me to the ground; I had a lot of problems back then."

Picard stiffened. "You think I'm having problems?"

Guinan shrugged. "That's what everybody's been saying. You've been the hottest topic of conversation in Ten Forward for the past three weeks."

"Hmmm." He unhappily acknowledged this news and relaxed his shoulders to a more comfortable position resting on Guinan's chest. He started to ask what they'd been saying, but he stopped himself. He didn't want to know. He couldn't stop people from talking, but he didn't have to listen to it.

He shifted position, threatening to wiggle out of Guinan's grasp. If almost anybody else on the ship had seized him like that he would have loudly objected. But his trust in Guinan went beyond friendship. And, he admitted to himself, he'd been exceptionally circumspect that evening about what he wanted to talk to her about, he wasn't really sure himself. He'd waited until it was very late before going to Ten Forward and then he'd sat at the bar for nearly an hour, saying almost nothing and privately hoping that the few people there in the corners would find some reason to leave. Guinan had obviously gotten tired of waiting and had simply asked to speak with him in her office.

"I haven't seen much of you lately," he started.

"I've been where I've always been," Guinan answered. "You've been a little busy. Lately."

"Hardly," he scoffed. Doctor Crusher had passed him on his physical that morning, but he was still restricted to no more than four hours of duty a day. The only other thing that occupied him was his daily appointment with Counselor Troi. He'd been catching up on a lot reading.

"Oh, I'd think you'd have a lot on your mind. Lately."

He mulled over all the things he'd been pondering in Ten Forward that evening. After a long pause, "Guinan, your planet was destroyed by the Borg. What...happened to the survivors?"

Guinan considered the question as if he'd asked her if the lemon pie were better than the N'jur-nut cheesecake for desert. "Well, they went to all kinds of places. Only some of them went to the Federation."

"But when the first Borg came, did they...did they take any prisoners?" The faint reflection of her dark face that he could see on the picture remained calm, but her eyes seemed to light up, even smile, as if he'd told her something new about himself, not asked her a question. She shook her head.

"No. No, we weren't suitable, I guess. They just killed anybody who got in their way. And there were a lot of people who objected when the Borg arrived."

Guinan's hands shifted position. Her palms flattened over his stomach, smoothing the red and black fabric of his uniform tunic, the warmth of her hands seeping through it. "How many?" he asked.

"A lot. Nobody ever got an accurate count. And after that the survivors just scattered. Unless you knew somebody was dead, you couldn't be sure if they'd been killed or just gotten lost." She squeezed him gently. She must have long arms, he thought, noticing how good of a hold she had.

"And after that?"

"You just go on. Isn't anything else to do." She slid one arm back under his. He felt her fingertips touch the side of his head.

"Did you lose many friends?" he asked quietly.

"Ummm hmmm." He looked up and saw the reflection of her head nod, her eyes behind him, distractedly looking down at his right ear. "Family, too."

"Family?"

"Yeah. I heard my brother, Zahn, walked right up to the Borg and told them to leave. It didn't work."

"Do you have many brothers?

"Dozens," she answered casually.

"I suppose I should be glad that I only have the one."

"Does he live on earth?"

He nodded. Her fingers rested, unmoving against his right temple.

"This is where the Borg drilled a hole in your skull, isn't it?" Her hand rested precisely on that spot.

"Yes," he answered stiffly.

"Didn't they put a hose here?" Her hand reached under his chin and touched the left side of his face.

"Yes."

"And didn't they stick a few things here and here?" She lightly touched his scalp there and there.

"Guinan," he warned, "why are you asking?"

"Just curious. Isn't that why you're asking me about my planet?"

"I'm not just curious," he answered, curbing his annoyance.

"Oh." She laid her palm on the top of his head.

"I," he continued, "I just wanted, uh, thought you might like to tell me how you...felt about it."

"You mean, you wanted to know how I felt when it happened, when I heard that hundreds, thousands of people that I knew, plus a lot more, had been killed," she stated.

He swallowed. He couldn't deny it.

"I didn't feel anything when it happened. It was too big," she reminisced. "All those people suddenly gone." She shook her head. "I couldn't take it all in." He felt her breath on the top of his head. In the ghostly reflection of the picture he saw her gazing down at where her hand rested. "When it happened, it was too horrible for me to really appreciate. It wasn't until later, when I started missing people, wanting to see to them, and then realizing I couldn't. Ever. Like when I have a problem that I want to talk to somebody about. And there'd be one person I couldn't ever talk to again." Guinan's cheek brushed the side of his head.

"And I think about my Aunt Zylo."

They sat for awhile without speaking at all. But when Picard finally broke the silence, they talked for a long time after that of the people that they wouldn't ever be able to talk to again.

**

* * *

- - - End Part 4**


	5. Chapter 5

** MEMORY TO MEND**

by ardavenport

**

* * *

- - - Part 5**

Picard strolled down the narrow, rock-lined path. He stopped at a turn and stared down at the pond. A few large goldfish meandered about over the greenish bottom. He stared down at them, glanced over his shoulder to see Troi following behind him and moved on down the crooked path that edged the pond.

He wasn't feeling particularly enthusiastic about gardens, Japanese or otherwise, at the moment. He supposed that Counselor Troi had gotten this holodeck program from somebody in Botany. He crossed a flat, wooden bridge that consisted of several right angle turns over the pond. He heard a splashing waterfall off to his right.

He didn't bother slowing his pace down; he'd already tried that, but Counselor Troi always seemed to stay at least five or six paces behind him, yet always within sight. He felt like he was on a long, invisible leash.

He came to a fork in the path and turned to the left. He passed small orange and yellow flowers, long green grasses and darker, unevenly sculpted bushes. It was nice, but Picard really preferred gardens that had more of a sense of symmetry where the design of the flower beds and walkways relied on a recognizable geometry, leaving the natural lines to the characteristics of the individual plants. He briefly recalled his friendship with the groundskeeper at Starfleet Academy during his time there as a cadet. He hadn't shown any appreciation for gardening at all then and now he regretted his youthful callousness.

The bamboo edged path led down a series of uneven steps to a walled sand garden. He stared down at the swirled and raked, coarse, white sand which was dotted with large irregularly placed rocks. The largest was taller than he was. He turned away from it and went down an ivy-lined gravel path.

Troi followed.

If the re-creation of the Japanese garden was to set him at ease, then it had failed. He paced the tree-lined pathways, looked down every branch and dead-end.

He crossed a large, arching stone bridge and walked up the trail to the tea house. He went up the three low steps onto the porch and through the open door to investigate the interior.

"Ahem." He turned. Troi, holding her shoes, stood in the doorway and pointed toward a low shelf and bench in the foyer. Picard glanced down at his feet, standing on the woven floor mats. He returned to the foyer, sat down and took his boots off. He stowed them on the shelf.

At the far end of the main room he found a raised smaller room, apparently set up for a traditional tea ceremony. He left the paper paneled door open. Another sliding door, a solid wood one, led to a lavatory decorated with wood and bamboo. He noted the adaptation of modern lavatory fixtures in the otherwise traditional house. Anachronisms like that usually bothered him, but he had no idea if this house were a historical recreation or that of an existing place. He glanced at the painted willows on a room divider with a black lacquered frame, one of the few furnishings in the room. A cupboard contained porcelain cups, bowls and spoons, another concealed a food replicator. Old and new mixed together, he decided, in a pleasing combination. Blue and red flowers, the greens and yellow greens of the garden, and a beautiful view of the waterfall showed through the floor-to-ceiling, glass-paned, windows.

Counselor Troi carefully settled herself on a pillow and folded her arms on the polished wood surface of the low table in the corner of the room. He sighed, walked over and sat down on the floor mat next to the table. Even with the altered decor and the much larger room, he recognized the same layout of Counselor Troi's office. The pillows corresponded to chairs. The floor mat was the sofa.

"You haven't said very much," Troi began.

"Maybe I don't have very much to say." He put his elbows on the table. He rubbed the back of his neck. It was late. The holodeck garden glowed with mid-afternoon freshness, yet it was actually after 2100. He had an important appointment the next morning at 1000 that he was not looking forward to, but if Counselor Troi wasn't going to bring it up, he didn't feel that he needed to discuss it.

"How have you been sleeping lately?"

"Badly," he answered simply. There was no point in avoiding this subject. He'd already told her far more than he ever wanted to know himself. The nightmares still came. They varied in intensity and coherence, and none were nearly as bad as they'd been when they'd started. But he still had them.

"Is there anything you wish to discuss?"

"No." He ran his hand over his scalp and rubbed the back of his neck again. "I'm sorry Counselor," he apologized. "I just can't think of anything that I haven't already said. I suppose I'm just tired of it all," he muttered without looking at her.

"It has been nearly four weeks since you were rescued from the Borg." He grit his teeth at the word 'Borg'. He furiously wondered how he could ever end this if just the word made him cringe. "Do you think you're finished with it?"

'Not likely,' he thought to himself. He shook his head, still looking down at the low table they sat at.

"Then you have something else?" He'd been annoyed with the leading tone of her questions for some time; now he genuinely disliked it. Unwilling to further Troi's irritating therapeutic method, he shrugged and gestured.

"Perhaps you'd like to make yourself more comfortable."

He sat back and sighed fatalistically. This was his cue to do something; get up and pace, get a cup of tea, lie down, fidget. He'd figured this tactic out last week. She would first distract him before she'd get around to what she really thought he should be talking about when he wasn't expecting it. He had to admit that it seemed to work, but he didn't like being manipulated.

He turned and lay down on the mat. It was firm, but comfortable, and smelled pleasantly of bamboo. At least lying down, he didn't have to look at Troi as he spoke. The long, dark shadows in the rafters told him that the holodeck simulation was reaching dusk.

"I suppose I'm concerned," he qualified, "about how I'm supposed to be doing. Not physically, but...mentally, I feel like I'm not accomplishing anything. And frankly," he told her honestly, "I haven't gotten very much encouragement from you about whether I'm improving." She didn't respond to this. The room was noticeably darker; the air a little cooler. He heard crickets outside. "Well?" he asked. "Am I improving?"

"I don't know; what do you think?" Bowing to the inevitable, he sighed. She always turned his questions right back at him. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a suitable answer.

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

Picard woke up suddenly. Dark, unfamiliar, the high ceiling loomed above him. He sat up. The room wasn't large, but from the mat on the floor it seemed bigger than it was. He had no sense of 'when' in this place, and concerned by that, he called out to the computer for the time.

"It is 0519 hours." He sighed, annoyed. Sleeping on the holodeck. He was certain that this was what the counselor had had in mind all along. He didn't recall that they'd discussed anything of any serious consequence the night before. He tossed the blanket off and went to the door. Troi stood on the porch. Round, paper Lanterns hung from above, but they weren't lit. She faced the brightening sky over the trees in the distance.

"Good morning," she greeted him cheerfully.

"Good morning." He let his annoyance show in his voice. He didn't like to be manipulated especially if someone else thought it was for his own good.

"Did you sleep well?"

He stopped, bent over reaching for his boots.

"Yes." No nightmares. He sat down on the bench. Troi sat next to him, close but not touching.

"That hasn't happened in weeks," he admitted, staring down into the boot in his hands. He swallowed. "Since before..." His voice weakened. He suddenly sat back. "Since before I was captured by the Borg," he finished quietly.

"Does it surprise you?" Troi asked.

"No." He looked up at the upper portion of a Japanese watercolor, pastel colors, flowers and black characters trailing down its length, hanging on the opposite wall. "I just wasn't expecting it. I hadn't thought about what it would feel like, to be over that part of it." He looked at Troi in the dim light. "Am I?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. What do you think?"

He looked away. "I don't know. I suppose I..." he paused. If he pronounced himself cured, that would surely be a sign that he still had some nightmares buried in him. Wouldn't it? "I don't know."

"Think about it, then." She sounded positive, certain. "You don't have to decide on it now."

"Oh, yes I do," he replied indignantly. "I appear before Starfleet's review board meeting today, Counselor."

"Do you think that they'll expect you to be cured?"

He frowned at the word 'cured'. "They'll expect me to be capable of resuming my duties. They'll expect me to be able to sit there and calmly tell them about what happened to me and that I'm 'fine' now."

"They'll expect you to tell them what happened. But nothing more. Their decision on your fitness for command will be based entirely on your medical and psychological evaluations. They're not going to ask you to bare your soul to them."

"That's exactly what they'll want." He fingered his boot.

"Is that what you think?"

"Yes," he answered simply. "And I can't just calmly discuss it, Counselor. I..." He felt his throat tighten. "...can't just lay aside my feelings about..." He inhaled sharply. "...being turned into a machine." His voice cracked on the last syllable, but he kept going. "And being forced to contribute to the murder of thousands of people," he finished angrily.

"Captain, I can guarantee that if you could sit in front of a panel of admirals and coldly tell them about how you were used by the Borg this soon after it happened, they'd never return you to command."

"So, I'm supposed to present myself and break down in front of them when I tell them about all the people we've both known who are dead now...when I look at them and remember the look on Admiral Hansen's face when he saw Locutus..." He paused, inhaled roughly, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. His cheeks were already wet. "...and my voice told him that 'resistance is futile', just before he went into battle. And died."

"Yes." He glared at her through tears. "That's exactly what you're supposed to do." She got up, went back into the tea house and returned with a cloth. She held it out to him. "Just remember to take some tissues with you, so you won't have to wipe your nose on the sleeve of your dress uniform."

He silently took it. He carefully dried his face and blew his nose and then dropped the crumpled cloth on the bench next to him where Troi had been sitting. She remained standing over him. He got up.

"I don't want to do it, Counselor," he told her simply, his anger having drained away.

"Will you?"

"Yes," he admitted. The lighting was noticeably brighter, the sun just peaking over the trees and spilling into the foyer.

"Computer," Troi called out. "End program."

The peaceful garden vanished around them. They stood alone in the yellow- stripes-on-black holodeck grid pattern.

"You have a few hours before the review panel. Is there anything you wish to discuss in that time?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't think so." He smiled. "Thank you, Counselor." He left her standing alone on the holodeck grid.

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

Beverly Crusher carefully spread strawberry jam on her second croissant.

"You're sending for some things that used to belong to Jack?" Jean-Luc Picard had stopped eating, a bit of sausage on his fork halfway between his plate and mouth.

She smoothed the jam as well as she could on the uneven croissant. "Yes. I've had them in storage, and while we're here I decided I ought to pick them up while I have the chance." She only briefly glanced at him. It just wasn't the right time for any really intimate exchanges, she decided.

For over four weeks she'd been watching him piece himself back together from one of the cruelest forms of abuse she'd ever seen inflicted on another being, and his recovery had dragged her own thoughts to herself. She finally had to admit to herself that she'd been avoiding even discussing her late husband with Jean-Luc Picard for more than fifteen years, and maybe it was time to stop.

"I thought maybe you'd like to see them, too," she finished, looking up from the red-smeared pastry.

He didn't ask her why she'd chosen now to think of Jack's things. She'd been on Earth at Starfleet Medical for a whole year and she hadn't thought of them then. There was more to her suggestion than she was admitting, and he wondered how much their recent closeness lay behind it.

There was no denying that their relationship had changed. He'd only occasionally had breakfast with her before the Borg incident. She'd started visiting in the morning as soon as he'd gotten out of Sickbay. At first he'd been annoyed by her checking up on him, but he'd gallantly started offering her breakfast when she'd turn up at his door, anyway. Lately they seemed to be making a habit of it. And now eating alone in the morning seemed too quiet and solitary for him.

"I'd be very happy to see them, Beverly."

**

* * *

o*o*o*o*o**

* * *

Will Riker mounted the two steps to the upper level of Ten Forward. At a table next to the wide window port Captain Picard faced off Counselor Troi, a multi-level chess board between them.

Picard acknowledged his first officer with a glance. "Commander," he greeted, while Troi took his bishop with a rook.

"I've finished the last leave lists, if you'd like to look them over." He handed the captain a large, flat note padd. Picard put it on the table next to him and activated the screen. He moved a pawn to the top level.

"I've noticed that you put yourself in for leave on Earth," Riker added congenially. Surprised, Troi looked up from the board.

"I've noticed that you haven't," Picard answered, ignoring Riker's invitation to expound on his travel plans. Troi took his pawn.

"Well, I haven't exactly decided on where I want to go." The first officer smiled. Counselor Troi smiled back. Picard took her knight.

"Repairs are still running ahead of schedule then?"

"Yes, sir. At this rate we'll be ready five days earlier than our first projections."

Troi took another pawn. "Starfleet wants us away as soon as we're able," he said as he considered his next mover. "We'll be filling a considerable gap in the fleet for at least the next six months." Masking his discomfort with the game, he frowned at the pieces before him. "If you take too long to decide you may miss your chance."

"Oh, I think I can come up with something." Riker's smile grew a little bit more suggestive. Troi's deep, black eyes flitted towards him and then back down to the chessboard. She rested her chin on the curved fingers of one hand, as if she were studying the levels of the chessboard. Not really caring much for public flirting, Picard glanced at Will Riker and his eyes fixed on one detail.

Commander Riker only wore three rank insignia on the collar of his uniform. When had that happened?

He quickly looked back at the game, but the ship's counselor had seen his expression change.

"Is there something wrong Captain?" Troi asked, her face framed by the chess board. He deliberately focused on the abstract, angular chess pieces. The physical evidence of Riker's old rank should have pleased him. But it didn't. He felt nothing, and that foreshadowed some inner turmoil yet to be resolved. He forced his attention back to the game between himself and Troi. He moved his queen to the third level. He shook his head in response to Troi's query, but her expression told him that she didn't really believe him.

Three more people approached. Lieutenant Commander Data looking curiously down at the game and players now stood next to Commander Riker. Guinan and Doctor Crusher strolled to the other side of the table, opposite Riker and Data.

He froze. The muscles in his jaw tightened. They were all looking down at him, or at least that was what it felt like. He didn't move, but used his supposed concentration on the game to cover his sudden inner panic. He couldn't even remember whose turn it was. Thankfully, Counselor Troi moved, taking his bishop.

"Captain?" Doctor Crusher asked. Damn. She'd said something to him and he hadn't heard it at all.

"Hmmmmm?" He kept his eyes on the chessboard, using it as an excuse for his distraction. Beyond the levels of the game Counselor Troi didn't look the slightest bit fooled by his pretense, but she seemed to be going along with it anyway. He was sure she would follow him now when he left Ten Forward to pack for his trip to Earth. He deliberately slowed his breathing, using Troi's favorite mental exercise to force himself to relax.

"You're going to Earth? To see your family?" Crusher repeated. He nodded, not saying anything aloud. He'd spoken with her a few times in the past about his brother and his family. _Why am I going?_, he wondered again. He actually dreaded seeing Robert again after all these years. _What am I looking for?_ For some reason it seemed wrong not to go, but he couldn't explain why.

Riker and Data perked up immediately at the mention of Picard's family. The captain coldly glanced their way and that cooled their curiosity.

He looked back at the game. It was his move. But the chess pieces no longer interested him. He raised his knight to the top level and arbitrarily took Troi's rook. She checkmated him.

He sat back, acknowledging the defeat. But inside he felt relieved. The pressure of the people around him seemed lessened. Riker and Data seemed disappointed by his defeat. Crusher looked concerned, but Guinan smiled quietly, keeping her thoughts to herself.

He excused himself, got up and left Ten Forward. A moment later Counselor Troi got up and followed him.

**o*o*o END o*o*o**

**

* * *

Note:** This story was written by me and first printed (under the name 'Anne Davenport') in 1993, in _Involution_ 4, a fanzine back in the hard-copy and snail-mail days of fan-fiction, before the internet really took off.

**Disclaimer:** All Trek characters and the universe belong to Paramount; I'm just playing in that sandbox.


End file.
